Awakening
by Laminamara
Summary: The scene we all wanted to see and were robbed of in episode 6x08: Thomas waking up after his suicide attempt. Baxter is there for him when he does and they talk. One-Shot.


**Awakening**

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing and the only purpose of this story is to assuage my frustrations about the latest episode._

Everything was quiet, so quiet. A stillness had settled over the room, stifling in its absoluteness. Phyllis shifted in her seat, rearranging her torn skirt beneath her. Until what seemed just moments before, a desperate urgency had driven her actions, her heart hammering in her chest. Only now when Dr. Clarkson had departed, the thundering beat had receded to a slow, steady drum in her ears. She looked down at her hands, which had stopped shaking at last.

There was nothing now but the quiet, so all consuming, and yet, somehow, it had so much to say. It talked to her of loneliness, of hopelessness and despair and she wished she could answer, wished she had any kind of answer but what was there to say?

Her gaze travelled to Mr. Barrow's still form, limp and lifeless under a bundle of blankets. He still hadn't regained consciousness and even though Dr. Clarkson had said it might yet take awhile, she just couldn't bear the thought of him waking up to find himself alone.

He was so pale, the shadows under his eyes a stark contrast to his bloodless skin, his cheekbones sharp and prominent. He seemed thinner and more fragile and she wondered whether he'd been losing weight and she hadn't noticed. He looked like a ghost, eerily beautiful but untouchable, and maybe that's what he was, what he had been these last few months, someone just passing through life without taking part in it. The thought came unbidden and brought with it a wave of sadness she hadn't expected.

Her heart ached for him, but there was a tiny part of her, the selfish part, which was also sad for herself, to see such a strong spirit crushed, a spirit she had admired, and with it her illusions that it was possible to overcome anything if you set your mind to it. Even if she had never thought herself capable of such, it had been a comfort to know someone out there had the strength that she never had.

Phyllis watched his shallow breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and her thoughts strayed back to when they were younger, when he had been Thomas. Not Mr. Barrow, just Thomas, the younger brother of her best friend. He had been different then, open, funny, always up to some trick or other. And then everything changed.

As he grew older it became obvious that he was not like the other boys, whose thoughts and eyes alike were always on the closest skirt they could find, and one day when she came to visit she found Sarah on the porch, tears in her eyes, while from inside she could hear Thomas's muffled cries as leather hit flesh. Where his father ruled with a hard hand, the other boys lashed out with sharp tongues. Sometimes she wondered which was worse and while she wondered, Thomas grew bitter. His wit turned into sarcasm, his tricks into malice, his true feelings forever hidden behind a veneer of superiority.

But it was his defiance which she admired. It did not matter what came his way, it was met with an iron will and fought with everything he had. It was stubbornness and it was pride, but there was a fire inside of him which forbade him to ever give up.

Over the last few months the fire had begun to flicker, threatened by loneliness and ignorance, and she had missed the moment it had finally been snuffed out. If not for Mr. Mosley, she would have never known until it was too late.

A small moan ripped her from her thoughts and she looked up to see Thomas opening his eyes. She would always remember the moment he realized that he was still alive, the pure horror that crossed over his face before an instant later tears welled up in his eyes.

Her throat closed up at the sight. How could anyone be so terrified of being alive? Even in her darkest hour, when she had been alone, with nothing in her future but a damp prison cell, had she ever felt this way. She wasn't even sure she was able to feel that kind of despair.

Phyllis hadn't made a sound, but Thomas saw her and when he did, the tears spilled over and he started to cry. It was a heart wrenching sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, which quickly turned to desperate gasps as he tried to control himself.

But control, at this moment, was beyond him and he turned away, hiding himself in the pillow. For a moment she didn't quite know what to do. It was obvious he felt ashamed, exposed, and didn't want her to see, but she was loathe to leave him alone. It was, after all, what lay at the root of this and she wanted, needed him to see that there was someone who cared. And so she leaned over, took his hand in both of hers and waited.

* * *

When Thomas finally looked at her, his eyes red and hollow, the shadows underneath even more pronounced, his haunted expression made her own eyes sting.

"Why did you do it, Thomas?" It was the question that had been burning on her tongue ever since she'd found him in the bathtub and even though she thought she knew the answer, she needed to hear it from him. In the back of her mind, guilt nagged at her, for using his vulnerability to her advantage, to ask him in a moment when he had not yet recovered the shields he normally hid behind. But once he did, he would never open up, and Phyllis was sure that that was exactly what he needed.

"Why do you think?" Thomas turned his head up to the ceiling, his gaze fixed on the single lamp dangling from above. "There's nothing for me here. Not anywhere." He paused. "And don't you dare tell me that I'm silly."

It was a mere whiff of his usual bite, but it gave her hope that not all was lost, that there was still _something_ left underneath it all, a spark which could be nurtured to grow. "I won't," she said.

He looked at her then. "I know I've brought this on myself, for years I did nothing but scheme and try to make their lives miserable, but I've tried…" he swallowed once and closed his eyes. "I've tried to be different but they won't let me. Seems to me everything I do is never good enough. They will never trust me."

Thomas pushed himself up to lean against the wall, then let his head fall back, pressing his eyes shut.

"Are you alright?" Phyllis asked. He had become even paler than before and she reached out to touch his arm, then stopped herself.

"Just dizzy." A moment passed in which none of them said anything, then: "I can't even get another bloody job, this is everything I have." He laughed, short and without humour. "It's pathetic, is what it is. After all these years, everyone's moving on and I'd actually be glad to stay? Not that anyone wants me to stay."

"I do. You treated me quite miserably, too, as I recall and I still want you to stay." She tried for a smile, but didn't quite manage.

"That's because you're daft." There was no venom in his words.

"They'll come around."

"When? When d'you think that'll ever happen if it hasn't happened by now?" His voice cracked. She wanted to say something, anything to make this better, but she couldn't. Not when everything she would say would be a lie. She knew he was right.

She had forgiven Thomas - not that there'd been much to forgive, she had somehow always been able to see behind the façade – but the others didn't know him the way she did. They'd never known him to be other than he'd been, even Mr. Mosley, the kindest soul she knew, could not understand the soft spot she held for Thomas nor care for it.

Most of them were kind to him when it was called for and treated him with respect, but they did not want to come close, to see more than what they were able to see at a first glance.

"We'll just need to find you another job. Somewhere you can meet new people with whom you can have a fresh start, without the history you have here. People who will see you for who you truly are."

He'd been staring at a spot on his blanket, avoiding her gaze, but at this he looked up, the look in his eyes unreadable. "And who is that? I don't even know anymore."

"Then you better figure it out. That should be a start, shouldn't it?" As she said it, she noticed that his colour had fled again. He seemed tired, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Dr. Clarkson had warned her that it would take Thomas a while to recover from the blood loss and she didn't want to make it worse.

"You should try to get some sleep," she said and got up. It was strange, she thought as she stared down at him, seeing him in his pyjamas, his hair unruly and without pomade, so different from his usually collected self. It made him look surprisingly young.

"Thank you, Mrs. Baxter," Thomas muttered, so softly that she barely caught it. She'd like to imagine that he was thanking her for saving his life, but if she was honest with herself she didn't think he was there yet, not right then and maybe not in a long time. But he was thanking her for something and it made her smile.

When she turned around one last time to quietly close the door, he was already fast asleep.


End file.
